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A Poor little ant
One can`t fly although you flap with wings-
it`s useless as you`ll only snap the twigs.
The tree rose higher than the roofs around
and clouds, then it sank in the sky forever
as far as could it from the very ground.
Breathing faintly, pale about the fright
the ant has flown away just out of sight
forever. Such a poor thing he is!
He`s not to blame at all. He`s not to blame
that strolling slowly, on his way he came
to an apple orchard in the summertime.
And found himself in heaven in the end,
Where there`s nobody he loved or met –
The forced captive of the cruel fate.
He gives a sigh while taking in the air,
As only star anthill is left to stare.
